


Life Goes On

by RarePairFairy



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gardening, M/M, Other, i'm just trying to give your soul a hug, random paint trivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 23:48:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13042071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RarePairFairy/pseuds/RarePairFairy
Summary: fill for Happy Hobbit Holidays. ratatoskur requested something with friendship. I'm terrible at larger-scale fic so I focused my energy on two small-scale intimate scenarios between some beloved company members.





	Life Goes On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ratatoskur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratatoskur/gifts).



> TRIVIA TIME! Natural ultramarine paint, before the French synthetic version was invented, was so expensive that Michelangelo couldn’t afford it. It was made from ground up lapis lazuli and the only place you could source it was Afghanistan.

The blue-veined chunk of rock sat on the table between them like a dare.

‘You know what they say about gift horses,’ Bofur said with a wink. ‘It’s better to barter them than go looking fer teeth.’

‘I’m not sure that’s …’ Dori trailed off faintly, eyeing the raw lapis lazuli as if it might indeed have teeth hidden in there somewhere. He wasn’t above using woad, but every artisan who was serious about their trade knew the value of a nice dense blue. Especially a blue that no-one in Middle Earth had been able to use or replicate in a hundred years.

‘Anyway, the blessin’s not the rock, it’s the dwarf I crossed paths with the other eve and happened to chat up,’ Bofur said, circling back around to the point he had wanted to make.

When Bofur had arrived at the eldest Ri’s residence, he had intended it to go nice and casual. He hadn’t planned on ambushing Dori, really. It’s just that anyone else would gossip. Not that his friends would ever mean to shame him. Plenty of dwarves had the same problem. But, aside from Bilbo, Dori was the only member of the company capable of any degree of _delicacy_. He knew when to keep potentially embarrassing information to himself.

‘Erebor has been the only site to mine lapis lazuli in a thousand years. The only place the pure pigment could be sourced,’ Dori said, as if trying to make Bofur understand.

‘Aye. And now we have Erebor, and its supply, _and_ the dwarrowdam who makes the good stuff. And you can be first in.’

Dori squinted suspiciously at the sales pitch. The mines had _only just_ reopened. Bofur was among the first down, but still.

‘You’re sure it – and she – is … genuine?’

Bofur put his fist over his heart and leaned back, mock-aghast. Dori hastily lifted a conciliatory hand.

‘Raising Nori, you understand. I have to. It’s simply that, well, I would imagine the muralists would be the first to get their hands on the stuff.’

‘Normally. It’s all in who you know nowadays,’ Bofur said, with another wink.

 _Fine, be as slippery as you like_ , Dori thought with a dry huff. But it would be unlike Bofur to promise where he couldn’t deliver. He’d probably serenaded that poor woman silly with his music and his charms and now she’d gone and promised first supply of Erebor’s most exclusive paint to a dwarf that couldn’t draw a stick figure if he used an actual stick.

Not that Dori could blame her. Everybody had had a crush on Bofur at some point, no-one could help it. It’s the bloody flute.

‘A miner knows a rock from a rock my friend, even if I couldn’t tell your crimsons from your cobalts. I’ll get you the genuine article. All I’m asking is a little favour in return.’

‘I’m not serving beer in my teahouse just so you can drink on your lunch break,’ Dori said immediately.

‘Bless me, no. I’m here for a one-off service.’

‘Ah,’ Dori said, apprehensiveness lifting slightly. Getting hired by a fellow company member was unusual, but mildly flattering. With Erebor recovering brick by brick, mason by jeweller by merchant by guild by club by industry, it was very comforting to get into the swing of doing business. That aside, the members of the company seldom hired each other for anything. There was something embarrassing about it. Something almost impersonal about treating such intimate friends like any old labourer. They only went to each other when no-one else would do.

‘Now what would a minstrel miner want that he would exchange first dibs at the most expensive paint in Erebor?’ Dori asked. An olive branch, testing the waters. He had to justify folding to himself somehow. Bloody flute.

Bofur leaned back, openly confident. Dori’s hackles rose again, just in case.

‘You taught Ori everything he knows about the pen?’

‘Ori taught himself most of what he knows,’ Dori said. ‘He’s always been a very diligent student.’

‘I’d put money on it,’ Bofur replied loyally, ‘but I’d also bet that you did a little refining here and there. Cleaned up his language, made him presentable.’

Dori let himself preen a little.

‘I couldn’t help noticing he’s a little tied up in the library these days, otherwise I’d be going to him.’

‘You’re here to have something inscribed?’ Dori asked, eyebrows lifting. Bofur may not be an artist, but he was a dab hand at carving. Dori had seen his creative flourishes etched into the panels of some of Bifur’s larger props and toys. It was hardly amateur.

‘Transcribed,’ Bofur corrected. ‘Everyone’s writing to their friends and family and I’ve got some letters overdue. We’re all well-to-do society dwarves now and see, I can’t be sending chicken scratch to the old boys,’ Bofur said with a wink. ‘Figured I’d go to the expert and send out some decent invitations.’

Dori leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands over his belly. ‘You’re asking me to write your letters for you.’

‘I promised me mates I’d be coming home a hero, like proper nobility. I mean to send something flash to prove it,’ Bofur said. There was a very slight hint of pleading in his voice.

Dori let Bofur sweat for a moment as he considered. It was true, Dori had done some transcription here and there to make ends meet in the past, though he’d hardly describe his work as _flash_. This was unexpected, and slightly suspect. But Bofur seemed completely genuine. Surely he could write his own letters, so why _really_ would he want to go to Dori?

Unless he couldn’t write his own letters.

‘Bofur,’ Dori began, wondering how best to phrase the question. It wouldn’t do to be crude. ‘Forgive my asking, but … you _are_ , yourself, literate?’

There was a moment of silence. Bofur squirmed slightly in his chair.

‘Oh, Bofur.’

‘Now don’t pity me,’ Bofur said firmly. He was smiling, but the pleading note in his voice was more pronounced. ‘I was hoping my generous offer would forego any awkward questions.’

‘Did you really think I wouldn’t ask?’ Dori said. ‘Why didn’t you say anything? You’re very well off now, you could easily pay a tutor without making a dent in your accounts.’

‘What, one of those hoity-toity bits of fluff what used to sneer at me and my cousins back in Ered Luin? They can get bent,’ Bofur said, trying to cover his moment of weakness with brashness. It might have worked, if any level of hostility at all wasn’t so uncharacteristic. ‘I don’t want some lordling’s schoolmaster looking down on me. I just want a little help with my letters is all.’

Dori tried not to get impatient. Bofur was his friend, after all.

‘Have you asked Bombur? I’ve seen him write,’ Dori tried. His mothering instincts were kicking in. It wouldn’t do for Bofur not to be able to write to his distant friends.

‘He’s sick of transcribing for me, and his handwriting’s a sight besides. His wife has to translate his letters.’

Dori clicked his tongue. ‘And Bifur?’

‘He writes like he talks.’

Dori noted the slight flush on Bofur’s cheeks and promptly made his decision. It wasn’t right. He wouldn’t have Bofur cringing and awkward like a truant dwarfling about to be strapped, not under his roof.

‘Mister Bofur,’ Dori said with finality. ‘This just won’t do. I cannot write your letters for you.’

Bofur looked crestfallen.

‘I insist that you arrive promptly tomorrow morning, sunrise on the dot. That shall give me some time to prepare.’

Bofur paused in picking up the lump of precious stone.

‘But, you just said …’

‘Oh pish. Forget the paint.’ It pained him to reject such a generous, and deeply appreciated, offer. But he could accept no payment. ‘If I can’t have you writing your own letters in perfect diction by the end of the month, I’ll eat my ink block.’

For all his bluster about not wanting a lordling’s schoolmaster, the expression of surprised gratitude on Bofur’s face melted Dori’s lingering reserve like ice under a blinding sun.

 

 

+

 

 

‘Why won’t the bloody thing take?’ Dwalin snarled.

‘Why won’t what … oh dear,’ Bilbo sighed as he rounded the corner to discover the source of the cussing and fussing.

A red-cheeked Dwalin was kneeling in the veggie patch. His previously green trousers were stained dark brown around the knees and ankles, and his nose was slightly smeared where he had itched it with a soil-caked finger.

‘Cucumber plant,’ Dwalin grunted. Bilbo frowned in agreement, placing his hands on his hips.

They had an agreement about the garden. Bilbo was allowed to give advice, but only when asked, and only on the specific problem Dwalin wanted help with. Beyond that, he was instructed to keep his mouth shut. And fair enough, Bilbo supposed, masking his overwhelming desire to go at the bed with a shovel and a bucket of pig poo. He had very strong feelings about gardening and was likely to take over if Dwalin didn’t set his boundaries nice and clear.

It had been a source of pleasant surprise on Bilbo’s part, and barely restrained gleeful mockery on Thorin’s, when Dwalin took up horticulture. It was meant to be therapeutic, Bilbo supposed, at least Dwalin himself did not appear to eat anything that hadn’t walked on four legs at some point and therefore had no pressing need for vegetables.

Bilbo had been the primary source of early information. There were no texts on the subject, at least none surviving, in the library and Bard’s late lake-dwellers were only just figuring out which end of a hoe went in the ground. Additionally, Dwalin had fondly remembered Bilbo’s stuffed pantry and thriving garden from the Shire. Dwalin wasn’t a poor student, either. He just liked a solo hands-on approach and apparently relished the opportunity to learn things the hard way.

‘Little bastards,’ Dwalin grunted at the sad, crumpled leaves. Eyeballing the situation, Bilbo had a fair idea of what had gone wrong. The two sickly plants were fairly near the stone wall guarding the patch against strong breezes, meaning that when the sun hit it, the plant would be absorbing more heat than was good for it. Additionally, he had seen Dwalin’s distressingly overhead watering technique. You’d think a dwarf would start a garden with irrigation already built, but apparently it hadn’t occurred.

‘Shall I … take a gander?’ Bilbo offered gingerly. He’d hate to overstep, but it hurt to see Dwalin so downhearted.

‘Gander all you like.’

Bilbo knelt next to Dwalin, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, careful to balance himself on the balls of his feet. Thorin had gifted him a new wardrobe, using the new year and subsequent anniversary of the Battle as his excuse. Bilbo already had a perfectly serviceable wardrobe, but today he was wearing his nice blue double-breasted coat with the squared-off tails (Thorin was wearing blue today and his eyes always lit up in that knee-weakening way when Bilbo made an effort to match him).

‘When did you plant it again?’

‘A fortnight.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve tried transplanting it? Where the beans used to be?’

Dwalin was the only person Bilbo had ever met who could kill a bean plant. The things had been growing like nobody’s business but apparently one day Dwalin had gotten a little too enthusiastic with the weed killer, and next thing Bilbo knew it was goodbye bean plant. He’d been tiptoeing for a whole week after that.

‘Would that be safe?’

‘I should think so, yes. Turn the soil, throw some seaweed and compost on top and make sure to mulch around the plant nice and thick, I’m sure it will recover in time.’

Dwalin looked thoughtful. Bilbo wondered what he might be thinking.

Dwarves seemed to have a different philosophy when it came to gardening. For hobbits it was a sensible, yet cultural practice. Even the most inexperienced hobbit had more instinct about agriculture than any man. But dwarves took their crafts very seriously, and that was how Dwalin was treating his garden. Like a newly adopted craft. Bilbo had known the most practically-minded hobbits to treat their rose and violets like their own babies.

He wondered how Dwalin really felt, when one of his plants suffered.

‘Cucumbers like seaweed,’ he said lightly, as if absent-minded. He did not look Dwalin’s way but he felt the glance. The silence that followed was thoughtful.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be fattening up our king with supper?’ Dwalin said briskly, signalling an official Change Of Subject. Bilbo snorted. Ever since Thorin made a handful of comments about Dwalin turning into a hobbit, Dwalin had taken to pointing out every new hole punched in his cousin’s belt. Dwalin’s thumbs may be turning green, Bilbo thought, but Thorin was taking well to prosperity and adopting a healthy hobbit’s eating habits. He enjoyed his husband’s company at almost every meal these days.

As they walked through the arch away from the garden and toward the company’s dining suite, Dwalin clapped a friendly paw on Bilbo’s back and marched on ahead.

For a moment, Bilbo felt a little surge of warmth. He may not always show it, but Dwalin really was an old dear. Then, perturbed, Bilbo shrugged off his jacket.

There was a large dirty hand-print right in the middle of the back.

‘ _Dwalin!!_ ’


End file.
